


Hours of Ours

by kisssanitygoodbye, moodymarshmallow



Series: Like Attracts Like [7]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: M/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-16
Updated: 2013-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-29 10:51:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/686111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kisssanitygoodbye/pseuds/kisssanitygoodbye, https://archiveofourown.org/users/moodymarshmallow/pseuds/moodymarshmallow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Theron's thoughts about Fabian Hawke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hours of Ours

**Author's Note:**

> Written by Moodymarshmallow

He’s only been home for an hour, and he’s already ranted himself into exhaustion. It was Carver, this time, and I’m beginning to think that if all families are like Hawke’s, then I was better off without one.  
  
Fabian is angry, and he does anger well. No passive aggression or silent treatments for him, no, he just raises his upper lip in a tooth-bearing sneer and starts yelling. He’s totally coherent though, and he always knows how to cut right to the bone, sharp and precise. Sometimes I wonder what goes on in his head to make him so damn good at being an asshole when he wants to be. The things he says are not spur of the moment—they’re too right for that. He never falters; he rages like a blight.   
  
It’s nothing I can change. I can calm him down, and I think I might be the only one who can, but it takes time and patience. He’s lucky, or maybe I’m lucky, that I happen to have it. I’m not sure most people would sit and watch him pace the way I do, listening to him ranting, listening to his tongue cutting deep, and remain silent. But I suppose that’s how fate works; it sees a quiet, patient man, and throws him together with a volatile one, hoping for the best. Fate must know that there’s fire in every heart, regardless of how cool it burns, and I’ll be damned if we’re not perfect for one another—as perfect as we could be, at least.   
  
He fell asleep on me when he burned out, his head on my chest, and I’ve been absently stroking his hair for an hour now, just listening to him breathe. He needs to shave. Every time he shifts or sighs, the bristle-brush beginnings of a beard scrape my skin. But I stay; something tells me that I have to, that these wasted hours of ours aren’t going to last forever. Call it intuition, call it the years I have on him, whatever it is, I have always known to take pleasure in the rest that I can find, lest I lose it.   
  
When I brush an over-long bit of hair behind his ear, he mumbles in his sleep, something catty, something I’m sure he had meant to say to Carver when he had the chance, but didn’t think about it until long after his brother had stormed off in a huff. He frowns in his sleep, and I smile. I think he’s bitter that wit came too late, when there’s nobody to appreciate it.   
  
He asked me to move in the last time we really talked, and I told him I’d think about it, as if there was something to think about. This has been our bed for so long. This has been our room for so long. Every foolish hour wasted here has been ours, and if I didn’t say yes right away it was only because I forgot that sometimes we were apart.   
  
I kiss the top of his head as I lay back some more, using my free hand to yank the pillow out from behind my shoulders, because though I’d been reading when he came in, I have no more interest in the book. I just want to hold him; too tall, too heavy, too big to have his head and shoulders pressing into my chest the way they are, and card my fingers through hair that needs a cut and scrape my skin on beard that needs a shave. I want to spend hours like this, in this peaceful warmth, stroking my tamed beast while he’s settled, with nothing but the whispering crackle of the fire and the slow thump of my patient heart.


End file.
